Frida enters the dimly lit gymnasium, wobbling in peep-toe slingbacks that are a half size too small. An hour ago, the mothers were desperate for hair spray and curling irons, perfume and makeup. The dresses don’t look right with bare faces. They crowded into the Kemp bathrooms and helped each other get ready. For those whose dresses were too small, multiple hands pulling up a zipper. For those whose dresses were too big, experiments with tying sashes or folding waistbands. Some reminisced about their weddings. Some talked about their proms, imagined who’d be crowned king and queen here. Roxanne thought Ms. Knight would probably keep both crowns for herself.
Tonight, they wear silks and sequins, everyone tottering in heels after so many months in boots. Linda wears her curly hair down for the first time, looking lovely and carefree. Meryl has looped her hair into two buns. Frida is wearing a yellow cotton shirtdress with a Peter Pan collar and puffed sleeves, a full skirt. It’s three sizes too big and ridiculously plain.
Tucker finds her, says he’s been looking all over. “What’s a girl like you…”
“A place like this. I know. Ha ha.”
She does want to laugh. He’s wearing a mismatched suit, the jacket much too big, the pants ending several inches above his ankles. His hair is parted on the side and neatly combed. He’s clean-shaven again. From the neck up, he looks like an FBI agent. From the neck down, he looks like a vagrant.
They stand two feet apart. Frida clasps her hands behind her back.
“You look so pretty with your hair down.”
She blushes. She can never control her blushing around him. “We can’t be seen together. They took away my phone privileges. Because of you.”
“They can’t do that.”
“Of course they can. They can do anything.”
He steps closer. “I would give you a hug.”
“Don’t.” She makes herself walk away. She can’t let him ask her to dance, doesn’t want to dance with him in public. Dancing would lead to kissing. Kissing could lead to expulsion. Expulsion would lead her off a cliff. She’d be the next Margaret. The mothers have been talking this way. Whenever they hear about a mother indulging in nighttime or shower crying, they ask: Will she be the next Margaret?
Frida spots Roxanne, worries for her. Roxanne is trying to dance with Meryl, but Meryl won’t leave Colin’s side.
The trio of middle-aged white women find Tucker. Charisse pulls him to the dance floor and begins to shimmy. She spins fast and does a series of little kicks, making the sort of faces that Frida can only assume she makes during sex. Tucker is a terrible dancer. All wavy arms and nodding, like one of those blow-up balloon men at car dealerships. Frida should probably hold this against him, but she watches the dancing couples and yearns nonetheless.
Ms. Knight has outdone herself. She’s wearing a satin cape with a jeweled clasp, elbow-length white opera gloves. The cape is pink, as is the gown, a narrow sheath that forces her to take tiny mouse steps. In a just world, Frida thinks, the mothers would have tomato sauce to throw on her. A bucket of pig’s blood.
Ms. Knight gets on the microphone and tells the remaining stragglers to dance. It’s seven thirty and the dance will end at eight forty-five sharp. The parents must get to bed early so they’ll be ready for tomorrow’s evaluation.
Frida had almost forgotten.
Ms. Gibson, the DJ for the night, plays the “Cupid Shuffle.” Roxanne spots Frida and winks at her, miming the next steps. Only a few mothers dance with any grace. They flick their hips and wave their hands to indicate the situation is not getting the best of them the way it is getting the best of Frida.
A circle forms with Linda and Beth in the center. Briefly, they pretend to grind. Both are surprisingly limber. Beth slaps Linda on the butt. Linda does the running man.
Frida sways at the edge. Tucker is watching her. What would she still be afraid of if they were together? Not forests. Not large bodies of water. Not dancing. Not aging. Not solitude. He’d help her take care of her parents. Help her raise Harriet.
Ms. Gibson is bouncing along to hip-hop, a disconcerting sight. When the song says to “throw your hands in the air,” she does so with relish. Two intrepid fathers coax her away from her laptop. They lead her to the center of the circle and sandwich her between them. They get low. She gets low.
The mothers whistle. One of the fathers says, “Damn.”
Seeing Ms. Gibson like this is regrettable. Frida would prefer not to think of the instructors or women in pink lab coats as real people, doesn’t want to think of them in nightclubs or restaurants, as people who have fun.